


Once

by MaggieWilde8



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1940s, 1970s, Adolescent Sexuality, Coming of Age, F/M, Hogwarts, Hufflepuff, POV Female Character, Quidditch, Students, Teenage Tom Riddle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-05-28 11:16:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15047651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaggieWilde8/pseuds/MaggieWilde8
Summary: A witch reflects on her time spent at Hogwarts during the early 1940's - past and present.





	1. Magunoria: Natural

** Then; **

**Hogwarts, 1940s**

  
Unlike her other classmates, she misses home. Badly. She feels the ache in her chest, spreading down to her limbs. The tingles in her fingers like a whispered spell. She thinks of the little brick house with the old Victorian stove, the coats hanging up by the front door, the cat slinking by the back. She thinks of the vegetable patch and the bird bath where the sparrows like to bathe. Home is cold in winter but glorious in summer. It's a safe haven, despite the mould on her bedroom ceiling, the dirt caked in every crevice, the rickety-ness of the wood structure holding the house together like a bandage.   
  
She thinks of Pa, struggling at home. He works long hours but that’s not the problem. He’s lonely and misses her too. He’s awkward when he has to go help her buy her school supplies. He’s stiff like a board and bug-eyed as if the walls of Diagon Alley whisper too. He can’t help but comment on the current fashions among everything else: the cloaks, hats, fabrics and hairstyles are what baffle him more than anything. She’s caught between two worlds, both she loves dearly. The castle is cold and draughty for the most part. The ghosts still scare her and there’s been countless times Peeves has hidden in a suit of armour, bursting out in front of her. She finds most of the teachers unpleasant, as she does with many adults. The only seemingly nice adult is Professor Dumbledore, teacher of Transfiguration.  

She prefers it in her common room, the plants and the fire and the smiles. There are many smiles. Even when she’s in the hospital wing with a broken jaw. Being a beater for Quidditch is nasty business. Yet she finds it easy; conjure up her angriest memory or the most recent. Her arms are bigger than the average girl’s. Sometimes she gets teased for it; not many girls play, let alone play a beater. The one who teases her the most - a Slytherin - is a chaser. She’s broken his nose, a wrist and a forearm. She makes sure the bludger hits each time and it does. She doesn’t get away lightly; she’s dislocated and broken bones many times you’d think she has a penchant for it. She’s not top of the class except in herbology. Along with her common room and the pitch, the greenhouses are her second home. Soil and earth and oxygen fill the room. Her hands forever caked with dirt, her fingernails never seeing the light of day. She forever smells of earth and sweat. She talks to the plants when she thinks no one’s watching and they nod back.

She's unusual to say the least. 

  
**Now;**

**2nd May 1974**

  
She was a botanist at heart, was Beanie, my mum. Married to my Muggle father, she gleaned plenty off him through library locations and various books that led her to further research. She’d won various prizes for her work on Herbology – she’d travelled abroad for a conservation effort when I was nine years old. She knew the damage Muggles were doing to the environment but she also knew the damage wizards were doing as well. Escaped zooology projects, disastrous potions that were discarded, cultivated hybrids of plants that were more carnivorous than the average lion. She liked the magical plants but she liked the tame wildflowers more. She always talked to them in the garden, planting them in the borders with wild abandon. Every summer the garden was a tasteful explosion of colour.

There were times when Pa didn’t really understand and there were times when he disapproved. Muggle society, despite their technological advances, were backward in many ways.  Some of the neighbours didn’t approve of her not staying at home with me. When she left, Pa seemed to lose whatever stiff attitudes he had before. Perhaps the war had changed him. Perhaps he realised that life was too short to care what others thought. I often saw him crying, and it was often in the greenhouse at the back of the garden. The garden had been neglected, but he took great care of the potted plants inside the greenhouse. The lawn became rife with weeds and the grass often grew so tall that whatever was underneath it was killed. When I came home from Hogwarts during my first summer off, he came outside to find the lawn miraculously repaired.

He wasn’t impressed at first. He said magic was ‘cheating.’ I was grounded from using anything magical all summer – although I already knew I couldn’t actually perform magic. I think sometimes he doubted it really was there. I couldn’t perform magic so how could I show him it was really real?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Each chapter name is a reference to the English/Japanese language of flowers.


	2. Marigold: Grief

**Then;**

**Home, 1936 - 1940**

 

She doesn’t know how she does it; she thinks she must be mad.

It isn’t her fault Victoria Worthington’s hair is falling out. It’s just a coincidence – the previous day Victoria had taunted and teased her until she chose her next victim. Such things are hard to overlook when you’re so young. But Victoria’s hair still falls out. She feels guilt as she sees the bald patches among the white mane of hair that Victoria has. Her friends are delighted for her, but she somehow can’t feel happy about it. Whenever she’s caused magic to happen it’s never been for a good cause.  
  
She wishes one day it would rain so she doesn’t have to go out and help Pa in the garage; somehow a water pipe in her room springs free and soaks her bed within seconds. There are things she can automatically fix with magic and there are some things she can’t. She wishes her right ear could mend itself, make her hear again. It doesn’t. She wishes Beanie didn’t go on a rainy day. It rains on that day every year. 

One year she wishes atoms would collide and make her disappear. They don't. She misses Beanie and feels an empty churning in her gut, rotating grief and sadness. One day she has two naps and still feels tired. Boredom is her greatest enemy. She goes for a walk in the morning and returns to read. All she feels she can do is eat or sleep. When she goes to relieve her food cravings, Pa disapproves – it’s always breakfast, dinner and supper with him. No second helpings.  
  
Don’t you know there’s a war on? She is tired and wants to sleep, but Pa always cooks the dinner late because of his job and no wife to cook for him. There’s a huge, near-unbearable gap between lunch and dinner and her stomach curls into itself. She’s not sure whether its grief or sadness or hunger. She wants to eat, sleep and carry on doing that for a while, until she becomes bored of that, until she becomes fed-up of that, so she does the things she used to do until it’ll be fun again.

 

**Now ;**

**5 th May 1974**

 

…George Fornby kissed my hand when I was ten; but that doesn’t count. His family had impeccable manners but he was just an obnoxious flirt. Prewett snogged me on one Christmas night behind a closed classroom door but we were both drunk on stolen firewhiskey because we were both desperate. He didn’t look at me twice after that – I wasn’t his usual type.

The first time I had sex was with a boy one year younger than me on my team; we were the last to leave the pitch after a terrible match. 200-65. Slytherin had beaten us for the third time that season. I was terribly frustrated, as was he. The rain had poured down and I wasn’t wearing a bra; my nipples had pebbled. He noticed so we ended up fumbling in the sports shed. He didn’t take my clothes off nor I his and we were drenched by the time we got back. I didn’t think to clean up afterwards. The evidence had dripped down the corridor; I’d bled more than I ever had in my life. The pain ricocheted up and down my legs for the next two days. Rumours spread but were forgotten when the next victim was chosen.

The second time was better but he was much older. He was seventh year. We went out for a couple of months but he graduated and left without the courtesy to tell me anything. Honestly I prefer a straight answer than smoke and mirrors. I fancied the pants off Edward Woolfson but we never did anything other than walk to Hogsmeade. They’d all been in my own house, with the exception of Edward. All this makes me sound like I was boy crazy – chasing after them like they were going out of fashion. I was occasionally delivered the nasty insult, borne of sexism, borne of jealousy and fear. I’d bloomed a little early than all the other girls. For the most part, I wasn’t interested in them, either. 

The third was a totally unexpected boy who belonged in Slytherin house. I never thought a Slytherin would consider me – their reputation was well known. Perhaps I was less of a threat, especially as Gryffindor and Slytherin students typically hated each other. At school sex was something if talked about was only in secrecy or in dirty jokes. Most people’s parents left their children to figure it out on their own, and when, if they did suspect such a thing, they would assume their child to know all of it. The problem was that boarding school exacerbated the problems of sex. I was unusual amongst many girls, but I was not the first, not by far. The parents weren’t there – the usual rules didn’t apply.


	3. Ragged Robin: Wit

** Then; **

**Hogwarts, 1941**

   
Her wit could’ve landed her in Ravenclaw alone.   
  
Avery saunters round the corner with some other boys, Riddle or Lestrange or whoever. She forgets the Slytherin gang’s names. She tries to ignore them but she knows an insult will be hurtling towards her like a spell. Avery’s mouth opens and the insults are thrown. Typical, she thinks. She’s not a deliberate rule breaker but she flings out a simple hex to teach him a lesson; she’s not to be messed around with.

“I’ve half a mind to report you to the headmaster!” his voice rings throughout the corridor.

“Well, you’ve half a mind. We can all agree on that.” There’s one who sniggers and one who smirks; Lestrange and Riddle. Avery’s mouth stays open as she passes them, smirking to herself. Her wit seems to earn smiles from only a select few.

 Her recklessness and rule breaking could’ve landed her in Gryffindor.

 They’re on the cusp of winning during one of the best matches she’s ever had while at school. Mulciber is hovering like an annoying fly when she sees a glint to the right of him. He sees it too and she shoots off faster than she’s ever flown before. The air whistles in her ears and her pounding heart forces its way into her throat. There are a few near misses, but she waits until the bludger comes soaring back towards her. It’s going too fast as she raises her arm, knuckles white. She manages to hit it, but the vibration shoots through her arm like a hot white poker. It misses Mulciber by a few inches, but his concentration is thrown off. There are angered yells from the opposing team and she’s dragged off anyway because her arm’s broken. Macmillan catches the snitch. They win. She endures the hate for a while but it was all so worth it.

 If she lacks the cleverness for Ravenclaw, then she certainly makes up for it in individuality. No other girls are quite like her – quite as bold, quite as barmy for plants, quite as strong with a penchant for breaking bones. She lacks most qualities of Slytherin, and all other qualities are rolled up into one so she ends in Hufflepuff. She thinks of Beanie who was in Ravenclaw. Would Beanie be pleased? Or would Beanie be disappointed? Beanie could easily be made into a saint but she still remembers the driven anxiousness of her late mother. She remembers the need of wanting to do something, wanting to be busy, not wanting to rest. Why rest when you could be doing something more productive?

 Her mother would've considered Hufflepuff as the unproductive house.

**  
Now ; **

**6 th May 1974**

 

Riddle and I already knew each other thanks to Slughorn. I’d barely noticed him during the early years at Hogwarts as he was one of the quieter ones. In fifth year potions Slughorn partnered us up. Slughorn made a particular effort to encourage friendships outside houses. I was the worst performer and he was the best performer; it made sense to Slughorn. I suppose it made sense to the both of us too.

He wasn’t very impressed by me at first. He knew me from Quidditch matches but other than that we’d barely shared a class beforehand. He didn’t impress me either; he was an unbearable swot that didn’t correspond well with my carefree attitude. He sucked up to the teachers regularly and was the obvious ringleader amongst his group of friends. There were other things, I suppose. His hair was a little _too_ neat and his shoes a little _too_ polished. He had an incredibly annoying habit of playing with his wand in class, twirling it round between his long, slim fingers. Unnerving to some but not to me. His facial expressions were, on the whole, very limited. He didn’t seem like the other students but that wasn’t clear to anyone, even me. He probably thought disapproving things about me too; dirt under my fingernails, freckles, obsessed with plants and a Quidditch fanatic. He probably heard rumours about me. I was Hufflepuff, too. That says it all, really.  
  
I had the feeling he wasn’t impressed, really, by anyone but himself. A friend once coerced me into joining a duelling club. Unfortunately he and his gang were there – once he’d worn out the other members of my house and some of his own we partnered up. I eventually understood why everyone was reluctant to be his partner in duelling. I’d volunteered– I must’ve looked so stupid to him. Yet as we had duelled I deflected many of his spells to warrant interest. He was very good – too good. In fact he was excellent.   
  
I wasn’t as good being on the offensive but I was pretty good with defence. He tried different tactics, if they could be called tactics. He was unpredictable, aggressive and fired out spells I wasn’t even sure of. He certainly had me in a sweat, as if for a moment he had taken the place of professor. As so many of us were practicing it was easy for him to conceal some of his less-than-pleasant casts. As I deflected some of his nastier ones, there was a sneaky smirk plastered on his face. He almost lazily fired them out, effortlessly, waving his wand like a conductor in an orchestra. I felt hot air pass my cheek, sizzle at my neck. One spell grazed my elbow and I’ve had the scar ever since.


	4. Rhododendron: Beware

** Then;  **

**Hogwarts, autumn 1942**

  
She’s never been a contender for Slytherin. The sorting hat told her so, but she shrugs. Am I missing something? She’s got a competitive streak, thanks to Quidditch. Their Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher organises a duelling club for older years, hers included. She goes along, her friends twisting her arm. She’s not good at thinking on her feet unless she’s on a broom. Her first partners are fair and kind, but she’s soon upgraded to tougher opponents. Avery is aggressive but lacks the flair and control that other students have, such as Riddle.

“You tryin’ to be clever?” sneers Avery as she deflects and deflects and deflects.

“Expelliarmus!” She leans forward and catches his wand. His toady face is for once astounded.

“I don’t have to try – I _am_ clever.” When she finally faces Riddle, his face seems to lift, as if the mask has slightly cracked. She lacks the confidence to be aggressive – it’s in her nature to defend. Her cheeks are aflame with concentration – her robe discarded ages ago. He looks cool as a cucumber, not a hair out of place, his skin as pale as snow.

“Not so fast,” she breathes, narrowly missing a hex. Another of which she is unsure of. Riddle’s white wand is the same colour as his hands – an uncanny resemblance to his fingers, like an extension of his body. How is he so quick? How can he perform these spells non-verbally? Is Professor Merrythought properly watching?

“Don’t brandish your wand so much,” he says calmly, as if they were having a picnic instead of a fierce duel. She narrows her eyes, suddenly furious with his chiding of her. He senses this and smiles a little.

“Your spellcasting is unsteady because you’re flourishing your wand too much. Be slower.” She throws a hex at him for good measure. By the time their teacher notices, it’s too late.

“NO HEXES OR CURSES!” The words bellow out.

Riddle’s cheeks change from white to pink. She’s not one to blush but chews the inside of her lip instead. He’s not the first to cast curses or hexes, but he’s the first to be caught. They receive detention, serving it two days later – peeling vegetables in the kitchens without magic. The process of skinning potatoes is cathartic for her. She does it all the time at home as she helps Pa. They grow the veg at home, wash them and peel them together. They’ve learnt to experiment with soups and what they have. Ingredients are in short supply because of the Muggle’s conflict. Riddle doesn’t speak to her as they peel, house elves bustling about them. She expertly peels the skin off in one go; his brow furrows. She’s got one up on him.

“Have mine,” she murmurs, handing the peeler to him.

She’s got a better peeler than his. He pointedly ignores her, still furious about his punishment, leaving her hand hanging. As far as she knows he’s never been in detention. He’s never peeled a potato in his life. His hands are soft looking, the skin pearly, green veins sticking up like tiny rivers. Despite her hands being the way they are - dry and chapped, she’s not the one who cuts herself on the peeler. He brings a slim finger to his mouth, sucking on it angrily. She’s not fazed by his annoyance – just another Slytherin. They are sitting fairly close, enough that she can try and read his expression. She’s distracted as he sucks his finger. Sensing she’s watching, he flicks his eyes towards hers. There’s definite life in them but for a moment she catches whatever he’s thinking. A small line, by his right eyebrow. Light catches in his eyes, threatening to drag her in. An intense, wide-eyed stare that’s almost ready to burst. She breaks the eye contact, a sudden throb in her temple.

 

**Later – then**

 

She dreams feverishly – always has done. Her mind is imaginative and pulls no punches. Yet she dreams of him occasionally – the first with him sucking his finger. She thinks of his fingers and his mouth and she wakes with the hot press of desire in her groin. She ignores the dream but not her needs and waits desperately until the girls have finished using the bathroom. Who else does this but her? She’s a slut, like they say. Her body is on fire, she feels alive in each pore. Her fingers can’t help themselves, massaging her clitoris in the shower, her thighs aching, the pure want is agony and the end result is never enough.

She bites her lip as she reaches her climax, straining her muscles to prolong it, to no avail. Water runs over her hair and her nipples brush the cold tiles of the shower wall. She thinks of the dirtiest things, whispering to herself, lost in another world. She holds in her moans which makes it all the sweeter. It’s not hard for her to realise she wants to have sex with him. Other girls might fawn and simper, but that’s all they’ll do, fawn and simper. She’s an action girl. She’s hopes he’s the same – he seems arrogant enough.


	5. Orchid: Lust

**Now** ;

**7 th May 1974 **

 

I didn’t think he was attracted to me, not at first anyway. We had to spend a lot of time in each other’s company in fifth year due to potions. We were both fifteen. I think he was interested – although I couldn’t say why he was.  If he ever had a type, I didn’t think I was it. I heard the other girls talk about me when they found out. I had a horribly round face, copious freckles and rather ordinary brown hair. I never bothered to charm my hair into the rolls that was the current fashion – mine was thick and flopped out of whatever style I conjured. In all respects I was quite normal – and he wasn’t.

He was surprised, perhaps uncomfortable, that I had experience. I was astonished that he hadn’t, to be honest. He was easily one of the best looking boys in the school; even some girls in my house fancied him. This was despite the company he kept and his reserve. When I told him he ignored me for a while. I shrugged it off, deciding his ego was bruised and focused on the plants, thinking of Pa and Quidditch. A girl had more important things to think about. Underneath that calm, pleasant exterior he had an aura of superiority (unbeknown to the teachers, funnily enough) but in this respect I was the superior one. He didn’t resort to taunts like the others of his house, his gang whom I’d been acquainted with over the years (thanks to Quidditch). How did that make him feel, that someone was superior in this regard? I’d been foolish to think his snubbing was due to him feeling inferior. How wrong I was. 

He was undoubtedly a teacher’s pet, which wasn’t as attractive to some. He made each and every effort to charm the teachers but he didn’t extend the same courtesy to all the students. As a prefect he gave out some harsh punishments, even for students who had done minor things. I don’t think I ever saw him properly smile – not in front of his friends anyway. I knew he was an orphan and had no family. He tried to exert control whenever he wanted it. I guessed this was due to him having a lack of control in certain areas of his life. A lot of people didn’t know he lived in an orphanage, fewer knew it was a Muggle one. He and I didn’t see eye to eye on much, but I wasn’t the debating type. Few saw eye to eye with the Slytherins anyway. Members of his gang were particularly ‘Durmstrang’ in their views. By this I mean the dark arts. A lot of people were disgusted by it but many knew, especially later, to stay away from his gang. Certain nasty events corresponded with them, but they were never caught. This incensed many who were in Gryffindor – they were always hoping to give the Slytherins the punishment they deserved.  
   
He was a particular favourite of Professor Slughorn’s, his head of house. I never had the pleasure of being invited to Slughorn’s club or his parties. I say that with sarcasm. He was a good teacher but I didn’t like him very much. It was a well-known fact that his club and the parties that went along with it made the rest of us students feel somewhat inadequate. I never thought I was special anyway, but teachers always have a way of making their students feel inferior whether they mean to or not. It didn’t escape my attention that at one point the members of his collected club were all male. How would us poor females match up? Among others, Slughorn’s little club included Riddle’s gang. God forbid if some unsuspecting soul stumbled into a club meeting. Half the time I imagined them there to be smoking cigars and swirling brandy, lazily slouching on high-backed leather armchairs. I did often wonder what happened exactly at these clubs. Riddle and I didn’t have much in the way of conversation, not after he’d finished with me. There were times where he’d actually indulge me.

“What actually goes on that in club of his?” I asked innocently one day. I can’t remember what we were doing, but we must’ve been in class. We hardly talked when we had sex. I watched him for a reaction, but he was always remarkably composed. I remember his words were twisted with something like scorn, despite the smirk on his face.

“Why  _ask_ , Shawyer?” he replied, using my surname for effect.

“Why _not_?” I said, drawing my brows. He liked to string me along, then disappoint – this was his way. He watched me for a mere moment.

“Nothing much really,” had been his reply. I realised he was telling the truth but I always felt there was more to it.

 **  
Then** ;

 **November 1942**  


Her hair is stringy and interspersed with cakes of mud. She returns from the hospital wing absent-mindedly rubbing her jaw. She realises with a pang that she’s supposed to meet her potions partner to finalise their project. She feels guilty that he’s done so much of it but her time has been taken up with her own herbology project and quidditch. She half runs to the library and finds him stoically writing his essay, almost finished with exquisitely neat handwriting. She’s still in her quidditch gear but tears off her long robe when she sits down at the table with him. He isn’t impressed by her late appearance.

“Happens when you take a bludger to your jaw,” she responds.  
  
She gets the feeling he enjoys her wittiness, something his own house lacks. They finish the project, her eventually falling asleep at the desk. It’s very late. He gently wakes her up and they proceed to put all the books back, to avoid the wrath of the librarian. The library is quiet and dark and they must’ve escaped notice. He suddenly pins her between the bookshelf and himself, breathing hard and fast. He looks confused by his own emotions, but she guides him, threading her fingers through his thick, wavy hair. She’s never been kissed like this before. His kiss is hungry, bruising and undeniable. He pulls away for a breath, but rests his lips on her neck. She’s panting too, slightly more vocal than he is because she’s simply astounded. He smells like soap and washed cotton. She feels him hard against her, pressing her almost uncomfortably into the bookshelf behind. They are spurned on by the forbidden-ness of it all. She bites her lip as he rolls her yellow quidditch jumper over her bare breasts.

“Breaking the rules…must be a new one for you,” she teases. Her nipples pebble hard in the cold as one of his warm hands gingerly cups her breast.

“Shhh…” he murmurs into her ear.  
  
She feels it’s best to listen to him – there’s a hint of command in his voice. She allows him to caress her, albeit a little clumsily, despite the initial confidence in him. She fumbles in return and she feels him come loose – just a little as a small shudder erupts from his voice. His hand snakes round the high collar of her quidditch jumper, pulling it down and then leaning forward to bite her neck hard. She’s not sure she likes this sudden pain, nearly pushing him away in fright. He senses this, and pulls away. She feels her lips swelling. His aren’t swollen but there’s a flush up the side of his neck and his eyes are so dark and large she can’t tell between iris and pupil. They don’t know what to do for a while, both breathing hard and fast. She feels the need to pull her jumper back down, suddenly feeling very vulnerable.  
  
Yet she feels frozen with something akin to fear. The library is dark, the time is evidently late. She feels for a moment that something is wrong, that he might hex her. She sees his Adam’s apple bob up and down in the dark before he composes himself. He wishes her a goodnight, twisting on his heel. He’s gone before long and she suddenly feels like it’s a dream. When she returns to her dorm, miraculously without being caught, she gasps as she sees herself in the bathroom mirror. Her lips are huge – swollen and red as if she’s had an allergic reaction. She presses the tips of her fingers against them gingerly. A small flare of panic rises in her, her eyes drifting to the large developing bruise on her neck.

 _Bastard_.


	6. Azalea: Passion

** Then ** **;**

**January 1943**  
  
It happens weeks later after their initial library tryst. She’s happy to go along with it; she’s not in it for the long run and is flattered, more than anything, that he even considers her. She’s not one of the more attractive ones – the girls in his house have that pureblood line of good looks. Flowing hair, oval faces, well-shaped brows and kissable lips. She not preoccupied with her looks but she can’t understand why it’s her. The other girls can’t either, who whisper and snigger whenever she turns up to class. When it happens it catches her off guard, much like her other experiences. It’s a cold Sunday afternoon in the middle of January. The grounds are quiet and she can hear running water somewhere nearby. No one is outside for the snow has fallen heavily during the week. The initial joy of snow has worn off for the students. She’s gathering some herbs for the elves in the kitchen – she’s bored and needs the fresh air. Besides, she thinks, anything for the elves who work so hard.   
  
She takes the long walk, past the greenhouses – her real home – backs round the school and round the lake, watching little spittles of rain touch the dark surface. She knows these herbs grow well here, just by the lake, the Forbidden Forest in the background. The air is cool and fresh, stinging her nostrils as she breathes in. Her Head of House knows where she is – they _all_ know she’ll be with her plants. They certainly don’t think of her fumbling with a boy down by the lake, hidden by a large beech tree. As she picks the herbs a shadow falls over her. He tells her waspishly she’s not supposed to be down here this late, even on a Sunday. She tells him his prefect nose is abnormally large and should keep out of it. There’s a tingle and crackle in the air, as if a thunderstorm is about to start. But the day is clear like any other. His voice turns cold. Turns curiously high-pitched.

“You are breaking school rules,” he tells her firmly. She still doesn’t look up at him, feeling her cheeks heat with anger. It was as if he’d conveniently forgotten the heated kiss in the library.

“Detention then, Shawyer,” he says, his voice quiet. Somehow the need to ignore, goad, anger him was all too tempting. The need to disobey him…work him over a little was a delightful prospect in that moment. _How dare he give me detention?_

“I’m helping the elves in the kitchen,” she says simply. She catches his expression; a sneer but he doesn’t say anything in response. His expression is enough for her.

“Oh I should’ve guessed it would be beneath you,” she says, enjoying this. He pauses for a long while.

“Shall I report you to your head of house? For disobeying a prefect?” he says, ignoring her.

“Go ahead, Beery won’t take it personally,” she replies.

“Detention every Saturday then,” he says, voice so curt it could shear through osmium.

“Doing what exactly? Polishing your prefect badge?” She can almost feel the anger rolling off of him in waves. There is a deadly silence as she continues to pick her herbs, one she convinces herself isn’t bothering her.

“Surely every Saturday is a bit…well, I can’t imagine I’m _that_ important.” She finally stands up, meeting him in the eye. What she says works; he draws a smirk.

“No…you’re not.”   
  
A miniscule part of her feels sad, inferior and uncomfortable with this. She goes to brush past him, but he grabs her hand, making her gasp. He quickly pulls her back into his arms, pressing his face into her hair, moving his mouth over the rim of her ear, making her suddenly yearn. He plants a kiss on her neck; exactly where he’d bitten her last time. For a short pause, his hand touches her neck, his long fingers nearly covering her skin entirely.  That’s what she likes about him; the power he wields, even in a simple caress. She pulls away to look at his face, his expression is mostly unreadable but she knows what he wants. She wants it too. Taking his hand she leads him to a spot she knows is well-hidden. The snow starts to fall again.

 

 **Then** ;

**Jan-Jul 1943**

  
She’s surprised that he finds ways to come to her, demand something of her. She’s not a wilting flower, though. She tells him to bugger off one night, aching from quidditch, limbs stiff with worry about Pa and upset over an argument with one of her friends. There’s a distinctive bulge in his jaw when he’s displeased, and she swears his hand brushes his robes pocket where his wand is kept. He changes his mind luckily for her but he gives her a piece of his mind. Insults thrown like arrows from a tightly strung bow. At the end of that night, she’s crying harder. They don’t speak for weeks on end and she decides its time to move on. Edward Woolfson on her team had been flirty recently. By the next hospital visit, he returns and asks her how she is. It’s been her worse injury yet. She’d been knocked out cold for several hours. The turf burns on her arms and legs hurt like nothing else she’s had. She prefers a broken bone than this. She’s got no energy to tell him to leave, but a cold, long finger strokes her open palm. Her skin tingles, her fingers twitch. Is this his language for remorse? She thinks it stinks and ignores him. 

She asks him one day after they complete a prefect patrol together, why her? He smirks, going to smarmily joke but she tells him she’s serious. I didn’t think you were a girl with low self-esteem, he tells her in return. I’m not, she replies. But I’m not your ‘type.’ He flashes a rare smile, showing perfectly straight teeth. Was there any flaw in that marble, polished exterior? You’re ambitious, witty, knowledgeable…and strong. She snorts at the strong. She’s not stick thin, she can hit a bludger for half a dozen metres and grew boobs far earlier than the rest of the girls. Fine, he breathes, growing cold within a second. You’re a good fuck. She ignores the coldness and smiles. _I can live with that._


	7. Ēderuwaisu: Power

** Now ** **;**

**7 th June 1974**

 

He never announced that we were a particular item, and I think it was because I honestly mattered little to him. In the beginning, this barely bothered me because I was busy with Quidditch and herbology and my plants. I was busy worrying about Pa at home. I didn’t like his friends very much, although sometimes they didn’t look like friends. He quietly commanded them and they all doted on him, looked up to him. This might’ve forged a friendship but it didn’t look like friendship to me. Some of the girls were curious about our relationship but I barely imparted information. Everyone was hormonal and angsty and wanted sex. Living with hormones and angst leaves little to the imagination when it comes to adolescence. Despite his inexperience, he quickly grew proficient, shall I say. Sometimes he’d surprise me, by twirling a lock of my hair round his finger or brushing my thigh in potions. Other times, he’d quietly and angrily fuck me until he’d let out whatever it was that was bothering him. 

Although he carried those same ideas of his house, it didn’t seem to take up his entire attention like it did with Malfoy or Nott or Merlin-knows-who-else. Their families were already prepping them with potential pure blood partners. Establishing themselves with each other, flaunting their wealth more than their magical skill. Other members of his house were greatly bothered by the fact that I had one non-magical parent, but I always quipped it was none of their business. My Pa was everything to me, the only close family I had. Riddle understood that, even if he showed no particular sympathy. Perhaps it was because he was an orphan, although he had no idea about loss – they died when he was a baby. He never spoke of it and I never pushed. We were both from humble backgrounds and had little money, unlike many students at Hogwarts.

Inadvertently, the subject of Beanie came up and he pushed it. Perhaps it should’ve angered me that he could enquire freely about my past but I couldn’t with him. Beanie was ma, my ma, my pa’s wife, my magical side. Beanie was an accomplished herbologist, dedicating much of her research to healing. Her plants outnumbered everything else we had in the house and I often suffered from bites and stings among other things. Riddle had the audacity to ask why she left. When he asked this I gave him a firm stare. His eyes. Dark, deep, like pits that were capable of swallowing and never giving anything up.

“She didn’t leave,” I told him with lips pursed. He was there, waiting hungrily for an answer that he expected. “She died when I was a child.” He had his answer; it didn’t occur to me that he thought death so lowly – death so unbecoming for a witch with magical skill.  
  


** Now ** **;**

**9 th June 1974**

 

Something happened during the summer of 1943. He stopped talking to me. He became withdrawn, obsessed with something. I’d worry, but he was doing the same with his gang. Then, the school was nearly closed. A young girl from Ravenclaw died. Fear and anguish diffused throughout the school like black, thick smoke from fire. When the next school term started in September 1943, he returned taller, more handsome, a ring on his finger and with a more domineering presence. Like he’s supremely confident of himself in a way that he wasn’t before. I wasn’t sure whether I’d changed for the better. I saw him flirting with the more attractive girls in his house and tried to ignore it. I didn’t enquire or pursue or even cry; I settled on quidditch and talked to the plants. I didn’t know if he fucked the other girls or not but when I had a quick snog with Woolfson at the back of History of Magic, he became interested again.   
  
He started talking. Was he envious, I pondered. No, I came to decide. His ego was inflated beyond anything. I should’ve been snivelling and crying in the corner, distraught by his rejection. Unfortunately for him I didn’t give a damn, so he didn’t like it. The charm could only take him so far. I told him what I thought exactly. This backfired for it turned nasty. His gang proceeded to taunt me and fired hexes. The Slytherin Quidditch team battered me until I was fried on the pitch. I had enough and told his head of house about their bullying. It stopped. Who rejects Tom Riddle? No one, of course.


	8. Shiragiku: Truth

** Then ** **;**

**1945**  
  
The last year. She’s barely had any contact with him but they pass each other in the corridor one day. They share some classes but they are inundated with work and exams so barely acknowledge one another. She arranges an expression that hopefully expresses stoicism, but he blocks her path.

 “Melissa.” She isn’t bitter over him. He’d never been a boyfriend. But there is something endearing about him that attracts her. He has a certain maturity the other boys lacked. He isn’t relationship material – this is obvious. Neither is she if she is honest with herself. If he let people in, he would do so well. If he let people in, then maybe that ice block of a heart would melt. She feels he is incapable of friendship, only because of his fear and deep, underlying self-hatred. Narcissism and self-importance had manifested because of this. Or maybe she’s being too kind.

His hand, pale and slim, rises to cup her cheek. She fixes her eyes on his prominent Adam’s apple, bobbing as he prepares himself. Who could resist? Her hand aches, longing to push her fingers through that wavy, dark hair. A heat bloomed within her as she looks at him. His own want is silent and he takes her hand to lead her to the prefects bathroom, where they know they’ll have privacy. She’s not a prefect, but somehow this little secret he’s let her know about pleases her more than anything.

His intentions are clear; he locks the door with a flick of his wand, half smirking at her in the early morning light. They peel each other’s clothes off with slow agony. She feels he wants to savour this; as if something drastic is going to happen to him. This time he’s gentle, gentler than she ever suspected him of being. He almost makes love to her in the large, ridiculous bath as he devours every inch of her body. He murmurs her name in his ecstasy.

He tells her she’d be a great asset to his clique. He can overlook houses, blood, parents, if it means the witch or wizard in question is proficient and a loyal follower. He’s got an irresistible habit of nipping her ear and whispering to her, whispering words of praise and encouragement. _You’re in a house that is loyal…hard working…_ He values hard work if it means it serves him well, she thinks bitterly. He values loyalty if the secret underneath is submission.

As he there beside her, caressing her fondly, she ponders on his words. _Am I proficient? Am I worthy? Am I loyal? Loyalty isn’t in my blood. My love, my life, my Mum left me when I was just a child. Am I submissive? The hell I’m not._  
  


** Now ** **;**

**1** st July 1974  
  


It's only years later when I find out the truth; eight years ago to be precise. Suspicions had been made, but I never believed them. How could I? Pa had died that year and I’d made a trip in order to scatter his ashes. Out of nowhere, he appeared. I nearly screamed in shock. He’d apparated close, so quietly that I’d never guessed him coming. He was a far cry from whom I remembered. Waxy, distorted. Red. Some of his hair had fallen out. I’d been to school reunions year after year after year but had never seen him. I had almost forgotten him and occasionally, in my middle-aged years mixed him up with another boy whom I’d eloped with in a dingy old Quidditch shed. He said he was gathering followers. He’d acquired knowledge and power of a remarkable degree. It shocked me, deeply, that he seemed to know everything about my life after school. He asked me to join him. I was reminded of his little gang back at Hogwarts. Now I felt I understood. My jaw set firm and I turned my back on him. My heart beat a violent tattoo, however. Everything about him made me want to run, run far away.

“I respectfully….decline.”

“Decline?” his sibilant voice replied. I felt his breath on the back of my neck, his shadow shroud me like a dementor. I knew he wouldn’t take no for an answer. If it was the same at school, it was the same now but tenfold.

“You’re not the person I thought you were, Tom.” This enraged him. He stabbed his wand into the back of my neck and told me his name.

_Lord Voldemort._

I was surprised he’d come to recruit me himself – he was that self-important, so why had he stooped to such low standards?

And years after that I felt a cold rise of shame encase me. I’d known him at school. I kissed him – let him _kiss me_. We had sex out on the school grounds. I enjoyed kissing and fucking him. I’d been secretly enamoured with him, more so than any other boy, although we were never lovers, never had a ‘relationship’, and were never sweethearts. Had I wanted to be his girlfriend? No, no I didn’t. There were times, however, when I wanted to _know_ him. Know him rather than play along with the pretence of dating, going to Hogsmeade on Valentine’s Day. 

I shuddered and felt sick with unimaginable loathing. He had murdered countless people. The same man who had been seemingly polite, clever and popular at school. How could he be the same person? This current man had struck fear deep into the heart of the wizarding world. Who could speak out against him? No one – for they would be killed. I scrubbed myself hard in the bath, wanting to purge myself of something that I couldn’t purge myself of.

The same man who I slept with multiple times… who had caressed me with tenderness….who tucked my hair behind my ear as he helped me with our potions project….who felt warm to touch and not at all cold…..

Just a façade.


	9. Manjushage: Never to Meet Again

**September 23 rd 1975**

 

Before he lost his body a few years later, two of his followers discover her hiding. It was miraculous he’d let her go before; someone whom he’d been physically intimate with at school. Someone who could’ve done damage although he shared nothing with her. Yet he doesn’t like that he shared such a weakness with a woman like her. There were purer women, purer of stock. If he so desired a woman, she wouldn’t be like this pitiful one, cowering on the floor. He punishes her. She’s never known such unimaginable pain and anguish – how could she? She could not even begin to imagine anguish, not like him who has gone so far to achieve great things. She pleads with him to spare her children – children who for now are safe at school. She doesn’t mention her husband, but he’s already found and disposed of him, although not by his hand. The man was a blood traitor. One last ditch attempt to preserve her life has her repeat her mother’s own name: Beanie. A story he was familiar with because he knew every detail about her life back then. Don’t orphan them, she cries. He feels nothing. He hates tears. He never liked the small children sobbing in the orphanage. She’s on the floor, crying, sobbing with blood soaking her clothes. He feels nothing. She hears his followers’ taunt and cackle around them, egging their master on to finally kill her. But her pleas are ultimately futile. It’s easier to kill than to try love, to try empathy and understanding. _It is better to be hated than to be loved, he thinks._ Dumbledore’s sickening love resolution. The primitive overrules the rational. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

 

The End


End file.
